I Promise
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: Sherlock's high. John's furious. Mycroft's concerned. Lestrade's scheming. Yep, it's just another day in London. Honey 'Verse. Rating is for language and mentions of drug usage.


**Disclaimer: Sherlock and co. do not belong to me. Really wish they did then I'd have my choice of bodies to keep me company at night. You know that Lestrade would get at least six out of seven nights, right? Unfortunately they're not mine and so I sleep alone every night…except for the cat…and sometimes my son…and sometimes my daughter…Good Lord, my bed gets crowded doesn't it?**

**A/N: This oneshot started its life as a song fic drabble. Sherlock insisted that he wanted it to be on its own though. After he made it grow beyond one thousand words I agreed. So here you go, a new Honey 'Verse story. Let me know what you think.**

**I Promise**

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John's voice sounded very far away, Sherlock thought, but he could still hear him so he nodded. He hoped John could see it with as far away as he must be to sound so distant. "Sherlock! Dammit! Sherlock!" Evidentially he couldn't see the nod.

"I can hear you, John," Sherlock frowned towards the computer where John's voice was coming from. When had John become a computer? That was a nifty trick really. Sherlock wanted to do it too. Then he wouldn't be so far away from his heart. There was something wrong with that thought but he couldn't quite grasp what it was.

"Sherlock, God damn it! You're high again, aren't you?" John sounded very unhappy now. Sherlock glared at the computer that had possibly eaten his husband. He didn't like for John to be unhappy and if living inside a computer was making him unhappy then Sherlock would have to figure out a way to get him out of it and back into the real world.

"No," Sherlock lied. He knew John wouldn't like it if he was high and then he'd never get his husband out of the computer. He waved a hand over his head and wished the stupid sparkles in the air would go away so he could concentrate on John. John was making his frowny face. Sherlock hated that face. "Stop frowning at me, computer that sounds and looks like my John."

"Fuck," John's voice cursed and the image on the computer rubbed at the eyes that looked like John's. That was a quintessential John gesture. How had the computer image known to do that? Sherlock started to wonder if that really was his husband on Skype. That would be nice if he wasn't quite so high. John hated it when Sherlock was high. "Sherlock…" The image shook its head and the frown was replaced by a look of disappointment and heartbreak. John shouldn't look like that. "I can't do this. I'll call you later. After Mycroft gets you clean, _again._"

Sherlock sat up swiftly on the sofa. "What? No! Don't go, John. Please? Talk to me. I hardly ever get to talk to you anymore." The thought of John hanging up had Sherlock's befuddled senses returning and he scowled. He didn't like being sober when John wasn't here. He didn't like knowing that his beloved husband was off getting shot at. "I was sleeping and you woke me, that's all," he lied again. John got so petulant when he thought Sherlock was using. He really didn't feel very well at the moment and he didn't want to deal with a stroppy John.

John only glared at him, his hazel eyes holding a mixture of grief and fury. "Sherlock…I really can't do this right now. I can't talk to you when you're high and I know you are. I'm hardly stupid and I can tell. Call me selfish if you want but I want to talk to my husband not the version of him that sees sparkles in the air and thinks I'm a computer and couldn't care less that half of my platoon was ambushed today. So I'll call you later. When I'm not contemplating strangulation over divorce."

The screen went black and Sherlock stared at it dumbfounded. John was going to divorce him. But…why? Was he that upset over the drugs? He could quit. If it was what John truly wanted he would quit. He scrambled for the mouse and tried to dial up John's Skype account. John didn't answer it. Had he ruined everything? The sparkles disappeared and he slumped back on the sofa his eyes closed to block out the blank screen of his computer.

**SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW**

Three days later Sherlock gathered up the mail and flopped down in his armchair. He needed another hit but he'd promised himself to be sober in case John called again. He had a vague memory of John's last call and it hadn't been good. He half thought John had said he was filing for divorce. That thought was the only thing that was keeping him from seeking out his dealer.

He longed to speak with his husband. So he'd suffer the withdrawal and hope that John would call. Then John would tell him it had all been a hallucination brought on by the drugs. John would ask him in a carefully neutral tone to please stop using and Sherlock would promise to quit. And he would. He'd already started. He'd rather have John than the cocaine. Cheered by the coming conversation with his husband Sherlock carefully he sorted the mail out into bills, junk and…a letter from John?

Sherlock ripped it open and stared down at the contents in confusion. A pamphlet for a drug recovery program and a short note. _Please stop._ That was all it said. Hadn't he just been thinking of this very thing? How had John known?

"He's very worried for you, Sherlock," Mycroft told him from the doorway. Sherlock lazily turned his head to regard his brother. He refused to allow Mycroft to know that he'd startled him. Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor, lifted one brow and stared at his little brother with sorrow filled eyes. "We all are."

Sherlock snorted but even he could tell it was a half-hearted attempt. "Then he should come home," he pouted. He knew it would do no good but he had to try to throw his brother off. Mycroft was notoriously judgmental and callous. He really needed to get laid.

"He can't and you know it," Lestrade pushed past Mycroft and glared at the young man sprawled in an armchair that had seen better days. "Stop being a baby, Sherlock." Lestrade threw himself onto sofa with a huff. "Look…John's called both of us. We've agreed that if you'll go to the rehab center and really try to get clean then I'll let you help on my cases. You have to make three months though."

Sherlock perked up a bit. He knew that John had talked the other two men into supporting that idea. Mycroft would eternally see him as a child and Lestrade was possessive of his cases. As bribes went it was a very good one. He'd take it. He was going to get clean anyway might as well get something out of the deal.

"John…" Mycroft shook his head and sat beside Lestrade. "John's very upset this time. He'd thought you were clean. But he can't keep worrying about you with bullets flying at him, Sherlock." Sherlock could almost imagine Mycroft shaking a finger at him. That image was much preferable to the one his words had conjured.

Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest and stared at the other two men mournfully. He knew his hands were shaking. He didn't want to know that John's words weren't a hallucination. He'd wanted it to be drug induced not real. "He said he was going to divorce me," he whispered. "Did he mean it, My? Really? He'd leave me because I was high?"

Mycroft sighed. "Has John ever lied to you?" He asked instead of giving a straight answer. John would never divorce Sherlock but he would end up with a bullet in him because he was too busy wondering about his husband to pay proper attention to his surroundings. Either way he would lose one of his brothers. An outcome he was unwilling to permit. He would drag Sherlock to the rehab center himself and force the other man to quit using. He didn't care how and he didn't care that Sherlock would hate him. He would not lose either of them.

Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft's question proved that John had actually said the words he'd dreaded knowing. John didn't make idle threats. He'd meant it. Sherlock felt a bit of his heart crack. He couldn't let John leave him. He needed him. "I…" He stared at his brother and Lestrade for a moment longer and then gave a firm nod. "Fine. For John. I'll get clean and stay clean. But you'd better not be lying about the cases, Lestrade. I need something to look forward to in that dungeon masquerading as a hospital."

"Promise us, Sherlock," Lestrade ordered. "Promise John."

Sherlock nodded easily. He wouldn't lose the only thing that mattered to him because of the drugs. John meant more than the feelings they gave him. The cocaine could never take him as high as John did simply by breathing. "I promise."


End file.
